And You See Your Tears
by Claret Thylacine
Summary: It is not long after the last war has ended. Many lives have been lost to George, but none more devastating than that of his twin, Fred Weasley. Fearing for his sanity, George's family send him to St. Mungos for recovery. George is pushed to experience recovery, to let Fred go. Sad and depressing story about Fred's death and George's reaction. Most likely a one-shot.


**Warnings: (Spoilers for 7****th**** book) very sad and recalling Fred's death. Depressed George.**

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George tries his very best to tune out the woman; she is like a broken tape player. She downright refuses to leave him be. She insists again and again that she is trying to help him overcome his "loss".

_Shut up, shut up, shut up!_

He wants to scream those words so badly at the nurse. She doesn't know what it's like- nobody does. George would be willing to bet any part of himself that this woman has never experienced the death of a sibling, let alone a twin.

Maybe this gamble he has thought up could chance his heart instead of a limb, then he wouldn't be able to go through this numbing pain in his chest. Without his life he would be incapable of train of thought. Fred would be forever lost from his mind.

Hardships and pain would abandon him, too. He could be free without this burden easily known as misery. Pure agony.

George does not look up at the touch of a comfortingly warm hand rub his shoulder. The woman somehow forces him to listen to her. She probably uses mind tricks on all her patients. Maybe it's her soothing tone of voice, crashing over his senses, but unable to dull the thud of grief that seems to be forever present in his ears. Maybe it's just the presence of such pure concern and…_love_ in the air that she transmits that almost makes George lift his head.

"Mr. Weasley? George, sweety, please, listen to me." She moves her hand to rub calming circles into his tense shoulders. He barely feels it. The doctor does not stop her fruitless attempts to reassure him as she once again speaks up.

"George, I know you've been going through rough tidings lately, but… you just have to understand that things will get better. They always do."

George shifts slightly in his seat, carelessly flexing his shoulder blades to batter the doctor's hand away from him. His chair creaks as he moves. George can already picture the wood snapping, and splinters flying into the air.

"No," he croaks dumbly, shaking his head and sending multiple orange hairs flopping around his thin, unnaturally pale face. It is the first time he has spoken throughout this entire session. The woman (her healer's badge reads out "Catriona Puce") appears only more worried at her patient's first words. No sign of relief, or even surprise appears on her face.

"No," he repeats again, so quiet even he himself is barely able to make out the cracked words. "How will this get better? When will this feeling go away? My brother will never come back; why would the grief suddenly leave all on its own for no reason?" Tears start in George's eyes, but they refuse to fall. It takes all of his heart to choke out his twin's name.

"Fred is never coming back," he says firmly. The statement seemed to be more pointed to assure himself more than the lady, though. "He's gone, and nothing will bring him back."

A deep crease appears in the doctor's forehead, creating faint wrinkles on her skin. She rubs the others back harder; it is an almost forceful action. "But the grief does fade, George," she insisted soothingly. "I'm so sorry, but you're right… about your twin." She seems unable to repeat the redhead's original quote. That would only produce worse results than what she was already getting.

George only buries his face deep into his clenched, shaking hands. He wants to ask her if _she _has ever had somebody she loved die. The childish thought runs through his head again and again.

She doesn't know what it's like. He'll never meet anyone who really does. He's certain of it. Even if he's somehow wrong and the woman has went through something that is only _similar _to George's own grief, she just couldn't ever understand.

He quotes this in his mind over and over and over again. It is some of his only consolation.

Mrs. Puce starts murmuring sympathetic words again, hopelessly trying to regain her patient's lost attention. George does not even so much as lift a finger. He sits, slouched and now shaking, on the hospital chair, refusing to acknowledge the world around him.

The hours tick slowly by, mocking George with the unreachable want of escape from this asylum. From this woman, who does not stop asking the same questions over and over again.

He isn't mad, George tells himself repeatedly with every word uttered by his caretaker. She is not aggressive or impatient in the least, but the way she speaks to him…likes he's made of glass and will break into a million tiny shards at any given moment. He hates it. He hates her especially.

Finally, a knock sounds at the door. It's about time.

The doctor gives George one last mournful look, dark eyes filled with a kind of piteous sadness, and stands to answer the call.

George, after much practice contributed by seemingly endless hours in St. Mungos, is able to tune out the conversation exchanged from Mrs. Puce to his mother easily, but he is still unable to ignore few snatches of their words and their sad, sad looks.

He barely feels his mother's hand wrapping around his own, and only distinguishes her by the scent of peonies and the palpable warmth radiating from her gentle touch like all mothers posses. George still feels the hole in his heart, but is nevertheless filled slightly with Molly's care and love. He was loved.

But love couldn't save Fred. No matter how much George, no, _anybody_, wanted the return of that same red-headed joker, their wishes would never be granted. Love had not prevented that Death Eater scum Rookwood from murdering his family, his own flesh and blood.

By the time Mrs. Weasley and George arrived at The Burrow through apparition, everyone in the family has already gone to bed. And George is glad for that, too. He wants to hide his face. He does not want the fruitless comforts that would be given to him; he does not want to see those somber eyes.

Never again.

George's mother kindly offers to assist him up the stairs if need be, but he turns her down. George stares into those wide, horribly wistful pits of deep brown of his mother's eyes, and, for her sake, he attempts to give a small smile of reassurance, but it comes out more like a grimace.

He wastes no time in collapsing close toward the foot of the bunk bed in his and Fred's old room. The room has been left untouched since that day when he and his twin moved to their new apartment in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

Every picture from Hogwarts, every photograph from George and Fred's childhood sits proudly in various spots around the room. All the spells cast on each one shows them, thick as thieves, either grinning and waving toward the camera, or making obscene facial gestures. One picture of him and Fred opening their new joke shop stares him in the face, and Fred beams proudly down at him.

George cries himself to sleep that night.

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**Wow! _That_ wasn't depressing at all! **

**R.I.P Fred Weasley. I've learned so much from people who've never existed.**

**George is staying with his family because of the events of the last war, and Molly and Arthur are scared for him. He is not insane, but...**


End file.
